What was the question?
by etherealfire
Summary: It's Hamlet, but he's really gone crazy this time...REDONE!
1. I

Okay...sorry that my reviews were deleted...sniff...but this story really needed to be redone; THIS is the final version that I turned in for my English class. I've had some complaints about Hamlet being OOC, but quite honestly, Shakespeare isn't really my forte and I mean this parody to be one in the sense of hilariously out of character (reread _Hamlet_ and if you look at it the right way, it's quite easy to see him as completely insane...)

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PROLOGUE 

Horatio broke off and stared at the place where the ghost had disappeared, sighing deeply. "Break we our watch up; and by my advice, let us impart what we have seen tonight unto young Hamlet; for, upon my life, this spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him, though I do not know why as he is already half-mad and a plague to the kingdom of Denmark. Do you consent," he continued, silently agreeing with the suppressed laughter in their expressions, "that we shall acquaint him with it, as needful in our loves, fitting our duty?"

Marcellus grinned. "Let's do't, I pray; and I this morning know where we shall find him most conveniently."

AND THE PLAY BEGINS…

_I hate this guy. I really, really hate this guy. Even though he used to be my favorite uncle and brought me gifts and…_

_No, Hamlet, you hate the guy._

_Who are you?_

_You._

_Am I schizophrenic?_

_What's that?_

_Um…I suppose psychology hasn't been invented yet, has it?_

_No, it hasn't. We call it madness, or "ecstasy". Now get back to your thoughts._

_Right. I hate this guy. I really, really hate this guy. Wait; I already said this, didn't I?_ Frowning, Hamlet Prince of Denmark looked up. King Claudius had just mentioned his name.

"Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death the memory be green, and that it us befitted to bear our hearts in grief and our whole kingdom to be contracted in one brow of woe, yet so far I hath pretended to be discreet and snatched the queen at the first possible chance while pretending it is only my duty. Yet the noblemen are so thickheaded that they do not see this. I shall talk loudly about the danger of Fortinbras and the importance of uniting together to defeat him while forgetting all about the fact that the King's death was rather suspicious…"

"Um, sire?"

King Claudius glared at the intruder, whose partner was nervously eyeing the possible exits from the throne room. "Yes, what is it? Oh yes, Cornelius and Voltimand—" he snorted "—sorry, your name is amusing to me; here, take these articles back to old Norway."

"In that and all things will we show our duty." Cornelius and a rather offended Voltimand made a hasty exit from the extremely talkative king. Laertes, a timid-looking young man who looked as if he would rather die than approach the throne, was next in line. He cringed as Claudius opened his mouth and boomed jovially, "And now, Laertes, what's the news with you? I shall repeat the fact that I, and I alone, am the all-powerful ruler of Denmark while pretending to be fatherly to you. What wouldst you ask?"

"My dread…" Laertes squeaked. He coughed and cleared his throat violently before continuing on in a more normal tone. "My dread lord, your leave and favour to return to France."

"Have you your father's leave?"

"Yes, he hath my leave," wheezed what many of the foreign courtiers had assumed to be a pile of expensive cloth heaped next to the throne. Several wondered how the old man could breathe, let alone walk, while inside all that fabric.

"Very good. Then go. Now to Hamlet, my relation and my son."

_I hate this guy. I really, really hate this guy._ Hamlet stepped forward, the smile on his face so obviously fake that the King recoiled at the hideous sight. Claudius made an effort to cover up his reaction by shifting around in his throne seat for a moment, then leaned forward. "How is it that the clouds still hang on you? You _are_ thirty years old, after all…_Gertrude, why isn't he moved out already?_" he hissed to his wife, Hamlet's mother.

"_I don't know, dearest._" Gertrude turned back to Hamlet. "My dear son, please, _please_, for God's sake, get over your sorrow! Your father is gone! G-O-N-…um…I forgot, I'm a frail woman, I don't know how to spell!"

"Yes, Mother. I know that death is what happens to us all." Hamlet was rather enjoying the effect his smile was having on his uncle/stepfather, who was making it a point to look past his nephew's shoulder rather than at his face.

"Then _why_ won't you stop whining about it?"

"Whining? I am not _whining_, Mother. I am merely obsessing." He struck a pose that would have made any overenthusiastic (and amateur) Shake_spear_ean ac_tor_ retire in shame. "It is not alone my exceedingly scary black clothes, good mother, nor forced breath due to my sob fests after dinner…and after tea, and breakfast, and—"

"Hamlet!" The Queen was quite alarmed to note the rate at which his voice was escalating in volume.

"I'm not finished! Nor the 'fruitful river of my eye', which is a disturbingly funny mental image, or the rejection of my face—no, I mean the dejectedness of my visage, together with every other possible form of grief you can imagine, including…"

"We don't want to know, Hamlet," Claudius interrupted desperately. "As your uncle, I understand that you want to mourn for your father, but you must know that he lost his father, who before him lost a father—did that make sense?—and neither of them acted like a stubborn mule like you are. You're acting like a child, when you really should be moved out by now—I mean, you're thirty, for crying out loud!—not that we don't want you here, and in fact you shouldn't go back to Wittenberg…"

Hamlet looked supremely confused at having been witness to the amazing feat of illegally combining sentences. Gertrude took advantage of his confusion, and leaned forward to look into her son's slightly-glazed eyes.

"Yes, Hamlet, your father and I beseech you, do not return to Wittenberg," she said very slowly.

"I shall in all my best obey you, madam," he replied, hoping that this was the right answer.

"Why, 'tis a loving and a fair reply," Claudius said graciously. _You dolt. _"Come, let us go, my queen. Farewell, my son." With that, the royal family and courtiers made the highly unwise decision to leave Hamlet by himself.

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etherealfire


	2. II

_I hate this guy. I really, really hate this guy. I really, really, rea—_

"Hail to your lordship!"

"Oh, it's you, Horatio." Hamlet cast a bored glance over the three men who had just entered the room.

"The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever."

"Yes, I know." Silence. "Um…I mean…oh, fie. How goes it with you? Why are you here from Wittenberg?"

"A truant disposition, my lord," Horatio replied, smiling wryly.

"Ha! Right! Horatio, being truant! No, truly, what brings you to Elsinore?"

"Your father's funeral." _You only spoke to me five times during it!_

"You mean my mother's wedding? I'm fairly sure that I saw those same disgusting puddings at both feasts; that's how closely the wedding followed." He stopped short and gave a great gasp that was somewhere between a honk and a tweet. Marcellus nearly choked trying to hold in his laughter. "My father!" Hamlet shouted. "Methinks I see my father!"

Horatio looked more than a little taken aback. "Um…where, my lord?"

Hamlet smiled benignly, and said, as if explaining to a little child, "In my mind's eye, Horatio."

"Ah." _How in the world are YOU the prince of Denmark? _"I think I saw him yesternight."

"Saw? Who?"

"Your father." _Obviously._

"My father?" Hamlet repeated, staring blankly into space.

"Yes." _Has he always been this slow? _"For two nights these two guards have seen a figure dressed like your father. They did not speak to him while he strode by, and told me of this; I saw him myself on the third night."

"But where was this?"

_Um…guards? Night? _"My lord, upon the platform where we watch'd."

"Did you not speak to it?"

"Yes, but it did not answer me. It looked like it would speak once, but the cock crew and it hastened away."

"'Tis very strange."

"As I do live, my honour'd lord, 'tis true, and we thought you should know of it."

"Thank you. Do you hold the watch tonight?"

"Yes, my lord."

"I will watch tonight. If it assume my noble father's person, I'll speak to it, though Hell itself should gape and bid me hold my peace…" He stopped, placed a finger on his chin. "Wellll…perhaps not if Hell gapes, but…speak not of this, my friends. I shall meet you on the platform 'twixt eleven and twelve."

"Our duty to your honor." They bowed and left. Hamlet was quite unaware of the hysterical laughter echoing from the corridor. He was back to his thoughts of Claudius and his father.

_I can't wait for tonight. I really, really can't wait for…stop it! No! Aaaaargh!

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	3. III

"It's cold out here." Hamlet looked ridiculous, bundled as he was in no less than five cloaks and, Horatio strongly suspected, two pairs of boots. Teeth chattering noisily in the night air, the Prince of Denmark strode over to the edge of the platform (which fortunately had a railing) and looked down at the cobblestones.

"Yes, bitter cold," Horatio replied, adjusting his own cloak and trying not to laugh at the face that Marcellus was making.

"What time is it, Horatio?"

"I think about twelve, my lord. About the time for the King to walk among us." He paused and glanced out over the darkened land. "Hark! What is that noise?" It sounded as if a herd of angry—and likely inebriated—sheep and/or goats had been let loose in the courtyard below.

Hamlet made an attempt to wrinkle his nose. "The...current...king is going out to dance and carouse in the town."

"Is it a custom?"

"Yes, but my _real_ father never did this; now, because of Claudius, people think the Danes are drunkards and swine and sully our reputation by their words. In his case, they're right; some men—not royalty, for I am royalty and thus it would be stupid to blame it on social status—are born with defects of personality and are the cause of all scandal."

_That was a LONG explanation to a yes-or-no question._ Horatio forced a smile, then glanced behind Hamlet at the approaching specter."Look, my lord, it comes."

Hamlet turned and made a noise that would have sent Marcellus quite literally over the edge with laughter had his arm not been seized by Bernardo. "What are you, spirit? Speak!" Hamlet squeaked, resembling nothing so much as a quaking lump of jelly in—Horatio was sure now—two pairs of boots.

The Ghost approached slowly, shimmering dramatically against the frigid sky and glittering stars. It raised a hand toward its visor and bellowed, **_"Hamlet! I am your father!"_**

Hamlet screeched, "Noooooo! I mean...come back! I mean..." The Ghost turned and glided away, gesturing for his son to follow.

"My lord!" Horatio strode forward and grabbed his prince's arm. "It beckons you to go with it! Do not obey, for it will deprive you of all reason and perhaps it will tempt you toward the flood or to the cliff, where you will fall to your death! The very place puts thoughts of suicide into your head!"

"Nay, Horatio, let me go! I shall speak with it!" Hamlet wrenched his arm free and waved at the Ghost. "Go on; I'll follow thee," he called. Tripping over his extra boots, he half-ran, half-stumbled after the apparition.

"Crazy bugger." Bernardo scratched his head, staring after the pair.

Horatio frowned. "Let's follow him. We can't leave him alone with that thing."

"Why not?"

"Oh, shut up. Come on."

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